After the Call
by gaol-is-ceol
Summary: The Turner family unit dealing with the events of the season 5 finale, starting with the phone call from Nonnatus House that delivers the tragic news, and continuing on to the moments we should have seen. Ngl, its probably going to end in some grief sex but I'll adjust the rating as we go on. Please Review. I crave affection.
1. A Job to do

"Patrick," Shelagh's voice was as shaky as her footsteps as she came back into the room. "You're needed at Nonnatus House." She had made it through those words, the important ones. After Sister Julienne had hung up the telephone, she had rehearsed those words, so determined to be able to say them. But now she was lost, she hadn't planned this far in advanced, as though she hadn't expected to make it through the sentence.

Patrick caught her instinctively as her body began to cave in on itself in grief, unable to withstand the tides of pain that now rushed against her heart. She was glad the wailing sounds she let out were muffled in his chest. With one hand firmly around her back, and the other supporting her head, he made little shushing noises, like when he settled Angela.

"What's wrong my love?" He whispered gently to her. "What's happened?" He kissed her forehead, and she managed to gather her strength back. Breathing in deeply, she raised her head, and took a step back from him, but kept her hands gripped tight around his arms, for support, to keep herself upright, just as she would want.

"its…" She gulped. No, she thought, she would get through this. "It's Sister Evangelina. She…she passed away in the night." She felt Timothy's hand rubbing her back gently, just as she had done to him so many times. Patrick's eyes were locked with hers. They could say so much to each other without words, they had had to once, when the words they wished to say had been forbidden. And now they said to her, I'm so proud of you, you're being so brave, so strong, I will do everything I can to ease this burden for you.

"I will be back as soon as I can." Patrick cupped her hands in his, kissing them gently but firmly. He began to let go, but she grabbed on tight, not ready to let go of his hands yet, not quite ready to stand on her own.

"I'll put the kettle on," Timothy broke the silence, "and see if I can't find the last of the lemon puffs." He smiled back at Shelagh's appreciative attempt at a smile. "Do you want me to put Angela to bed?" They turned in unison to look at the toddler, her wide eyes sad and confused, looking like she was ready to start banging the bars of her cot. She knew something was wrong.

"No," Shelagh said at length. "I think she needs a cuddle as much as I do." She let go of Patrick's hands, but he grabbed one as she turned away, squeezing it gently.

"I will be back as soon as I can," he repeated.

"You will not," Shelagh replied, her voice still tense and full of the tears she refused to cry. "You'll go round there and do your job, no cutting corners just so you can come back and check on me." She tried to sound light and jokey, but it didn't work very well. "You know it's what she'd want." He nodded, but still didn't let go of her hand. After a moment she pulled it away, straightening herself up. "Now, the sooner you go, the sooner you can come back, so hurry up." He put on his coat and scarf in silence, watching her as she picked Angela out of her cot and held her close. He couldn't bare to drag his eyes away, but he heeded her words, that was the best thing he could do for her now.

"Take care of your mother Tim," He said as he opened the door.

"Don't worry," He said softly, poking his head out of the kitchen hatch, "She's getting tea so well sugared, we'll have run out by the time you get back."


	2. Tea, well sugared

Tim padded into the sitting room, tea and biscuits in hand. Shelagh had buried her face in Angela's hair and was sobbing quietly. She didn't look up when Tim sat down next to her. It was only when he put his arms around her and squeezed tight that she looked up. She moved Angela to her hip and patted his hand.

"It's not your job to take care of me Tim," She said softly. He only hugged her tighter.

"Yes it is," he was adamant, "Dad said to, and anyway, I think I owe you after all the times you've been there for me." She tutted and put her free arm around him, stroking his hair as he rested his head on her shoulder. Just as she had done when he had polio. In the hospital. Afterwards, if he fell over, and she had propped him up, and he had cried angry, frustrated tears. She had done the same then.

"You don't owe me a thing," She scolded lightly. "I'm your mother."

"You were looking after me long before you were my mother." He liked being right. Always the smart answer, and she loved him for that. She sighed, she wanted so badly to give him an equally smart response, but it was hard to feel up to it.

"Maybe I was only doing it to snare your father." Her voice was weak still, but there was a feeble hint of humour running through it. At least it made Tim laugh.

They sat in silence for a while longer, and every time Tim heard her sob he tightened his grip around her, buried his face deeper into her shoulder. Reminded her he was there. But she couldn't help feeling guilty for it. Some part of her called out. You should be mourning with your sisters, it said. But you cant. You abandoned them. You abandoned her, and now she's gone.

"Of all my sisters," she finally said, "She took the longest to accept me. She was so worried, that I was too young, my attachment to God might be fleeting." She felt herself chocking up again. "And in the end it was." Timothy shifted his position, letting her rest on his shoulder now, and with him stroking her hair. He was so brave, she thought, just the same sort of kindness as his father, the decisive, determined sort. She got the impression he wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, but that wouldn't stop him trying.

"She brought me into the world. I don't mean to sound arrogant, but every time you make me tea, help me with my homework, tell me off for not wearing a scarf," He smiled when he felt her chuckle at that. "Every time you do that, you're taking care of something she started. I might not be the towering bastion of common sense and hard work she was, and I know I don't really understand your relationship with her. But, if it helps, I would like to be a link. A connection to her, now she's gone." And with that speech, Shelagh found enough strength to sit up, and took his hand firmly in hers.

"I cant tell if you just instinctively say the right thing, or if you know full well how smart you are."

"Must be the former," He chuckled, "If it was the latter, I'd be using it to get more pocket money." She smiled at that, a real smile, not the bittersweet attempts and half smiles she had made earlier.

"I don't know about that. You know how seriously Sister Evangelina took poverty and charity." She sat up and took her tea, it wasn't quite lukewarm yet, they'd got to it just in time. "I've half a mind to dock it in her honour, or make you donate half of it to the parish fund." Tim rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"If that's what I get for being sensitive." She laughed and leaned against him a little. He was so tall now, she'd stated having to put her arms under, rather than over his when she hugged him.

"Come on," She decided, "Lets drink this tea, and then I'll head into the surgery." You could see on her face that inside her head, her mental planner was open. Check the mail, send away the order for a new prescription book, check in on the mothers in the maternity home.

"Tim," she asked, "Could you take Angela for a walk? I'll give you some money to pick up a pastie for each of us from the bakers, and maybe even a cake each, I think I'll deserve one if I can keep going all day without an ill timed outburst of tears."

"of course, I assume you want an eclair," He said with mock disgust.

"I'm sure they'll put it in a separate bag for you, and get your father a jam tart, I know he shares your irrational fear of eclairs." I am so happy, she thought. Do I really deserve to be this happy? She's gone. But then, it was as Tim had said, this new life she had found was inextricably linked to her sister, and the best way to honour her was to live it, and enjoy it to its fullest.


	3. Work Always Continues

Shelagh's heart leapt when Patrick came home. She felt it reach out to him, so desperate for him to comfort her. But then she remembered, she had such a terrible thing to tell him. She couldn't bare to break him like this. His tentative smile was so sweet, so full of compassion, full of concern for her. He deserved better than this. He didn't deserve to hear this. But he was Dr Turner, and needed answers as much as she did. She barely heard what he said about how there wouldn't be a post mortem.

"Oh, Patrick!" She couldn't find a way to tell him, not when he was so bent on comforting her. He rushed to her side, quick to try and ease her pain. Of course he was, he was a doctor, just as she was a nurse, to heal was instinct to them.

"I'm so sorry," He began, filling her silence. She knew he was trying to help, but it only made it harder for her. She couldn't get a word in edgeways to tell him. He talked about how loved she had been. "Who am I going to spar with now?" He half joked. This, she thought, or rather it'll spar with you. It'll keep you awake all night, and if you do sleep it'll torment your dreams, my love.

"I'm not crying about that," She said with what little determination she had left in her. He was holding her hand in both of his, and she put her other hand into this touch that gave them both such comfort, though she knew not how it gave them both strength, since neither had much left to give the other. "I was," she looked him in the eye, "But then I decided Sister Evangelina wouldn't approve, so I sent Timothy out with Angela, and went into the surgery. To see to the morning's post." She hesitated as she slid the letter across the table to him. And those eyes, which had been so fixed on her a moment ago, so desperate to heal her grief, were now fixated on a greater problem, a greater wound to heal.

"They're withdrawing Distoval?" Shelagh nodded, though he didn't look up from the letter. He didn't need to look at her. So long spent in not being able to look, she knew now when he needed her, without any sort of indication, just as he did for her.

"With immediate effect," She confirmed. She took in a deep breath before letting him know the worst of it. "Babies have been born deformed, and they think there's a link with it." Her voice was practically a whisper by the time she reached the end of her explanation.

"This is official?" He looked confused, glancing from her to the paper, and back to her. She loved him so much, she tried to let her eyes tell him that. She knew as soon as he'd gotten his head around it he'd be blaming himself, and perhaps this was her futile attempt to cast out that guilt before it became rooted in his mind.

"I rang the board of health," she agreed, as he stood up, eyes firmly on the letter, as if it could tell him something more if only he stared at it more. "I didn't think there'd be anyone there today but the line was engaged. I didn't think that was a good sign. So I looked in the Lancet, and there's a letter to the editor." She could see him becoming consumed by it, finally dropping the letter to stare at the Lancet.

"Thalidomide," She could see the cogs in his head working, one half screaming desperately 'how do I fix this?' and the other reciting every bit of medical protocol he knew, searching desperately for an answer. "But they just say there is a possible association with harmful affects of the foetus!" He looked back at Shelagh, desperate for some clarity. And she always gave him clarity. But she had none to give him, and he went back to the article. "It also says there are only two reports from abroad, and none from Great Britain. I…I don't understand it." Shelagh shot him another sympathetic look.

"But this letter came Patrick," her voice broke as she told him, not just with pain, but almost with anger. "Distoval's being withdrawn." Patrick sat down next to her again.

"Shelagh, I have prescribed Distoval. To dozens of patients," he drew back slightly, almost scared of himself. "Perhaps scores." His voice grew quieter as the reality hit him. "Deformed babies have been born in our district." He breathed in, as the scientific, the medical, part of his brain took over. "We need to speak to someone. And then we need to act."

"Exactly," She said. "Tim can take care of Angela, though no doubt he'll want to help as much as he can."

"I don't want him to," Patrick interrupted her. And he rarely interrupted her, or any of her colleagues. He sighed, and looked up at her. He usually stood so much taller, but she saw his shoulders droop now. "I don't want him to see this. I don't want him to know."

"He will though," she maintained. "And he wont forgive himself if he doesn't help, just as you wont either." That was what broke him. He sunk his head onto the table and sobbed, his hands still clenched tightly in their little bundle of hands and fingers, and two wedding rings. She had to drag her hands out of it, he was so determined not to let go. She put her arms around him, and held him so tight she though they both might burst.

But after a minute he controlled himself, as ashamed of his wailing now as she had been of hers earlier.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her chest, "I came home so determined to hold you in my arms and comfort you, I'm sorry it's the other way around."

"Oh Patrick," She rubbed his back comfortingly as he straightened himself up again, "You and I don't need comforting. But Rhoda Mullocks, and Ruby Cottingham, and any other mothers who've been affected by this, they need answers. And giving them those answers, painful as they might be, is the only comfort we'll get either." How was she always so perfect? He wished she could see herself through his eyes sometimes, see her own strength. She was more like her late sister than she gave herself credit for sometimes, but he had to admit, it was nice having all that strength, all that will power and determination, on his side rather than pushing against him.

"I love you, Shelagh Turner."

"I should hope so, after all this." She only half meant it, but she could see it start to break him again. She stood up, and took his hand to help him up. "I Love you too, Patrick Turner." She emphasised his full name, mocking him a little for saying hers. But he liked saying her full name, she knew that. He hadn't known her name for so long, so he loved saying it. And he loved that she was Turner now, that she was his. Those two nouns together encapsulated so much of his feelings, that he could only ever say them when he wished to express just how desperately in love with her he was, and just how he admired, revered and respected her. Shelagh Turner – nurse, midwife, doctor's wife, his intellectual equal, his common sense when he needed it, his self esteem when he lost faith in himself, her faith in him never faltered, and neither did his faith in her. They needed that, now more than ever. It might be the only thing that could pull them through what was to come.


	4. Just another day in the office

"This is bloody ridiculous." Shelagh exclaimed as she slammed the telephone down. Patrick was surprised by his wife's outburst, bloody was quite strong language for her, she was usually so soft spoken. Trying not to cry, she explained her outrage. "They only went and hung up on me." She saw anger fill Patrick too.

"I'll talk to them." He almost demanded, holding out his hand for the receiver. Shelagh sighed exasperatedly.

"No, I'm going to call Nonnatus House first," she decided. "There's no point in us sitting on hold all day. We need to organise, and this is more than a two-person job." He put his arm around her and kissed her head, not minding the taste of hair lacquer. "Thank you," she whispered. "You stay on the phone. I can go through our records again, and they might let you jump the queue since you're more senior."

"Or maybe they just know better than to be at the receiving end of a midwife's wrath." They both chuckled lightly, and Shelagh squeezed his hand, just as he had squeezed hers this morning. She picked up the receiver and Dialled Poplar 495. Sister Julienne sounded as though she had been crying, and little wonder. The familiar response of 'Nonnatus House, midwife speaking' sounded odd when it was not her own voice speaking it. But she had not said it in so long now.

"Sister," Shelagh tried to sound firm and calm, butting on her best nurse voice, "I'm afraid I have to ask you to come to the surgery. As soon as you can."

"Is it to do with the coroners arrangements?" She asked tentatively. Shelagh so wished she could say yes, wished she didn't have to burden someone else with this news. She looked back at Patrick, god knew it was breaking him. He lit a cigarette again. He must have kept some.

"No."

After putting the phone down, she went and sat next to Patrick on the hard wooden chairs next to the filing cabinets. She took his hand firmly in hers. They sat there, shoulders touching, two hands clasped together, like climbers, grasping onto one small outcrop of rock, which could offer such stability. A foothold, they were falling, and each caught the other. She took his cigarette, as she had after many births. But usually, well, there used to be joy. There was relief, ecstasy even, pride in their work. There was none of this now, only a confused sort of despair. Because this was their fault. No, she couldn't think like that, Patrick would, and she would have to stop him. This was not their fault. They had only tried to help. They hadn't caused this. There were others to blame. They had not created this menace. They were not responsible, it had not been their job to test the safety of this drug. They could not have prevented this. This was a global issue, this was happening worldwide. But they could have prevented those in poplar. She could have prevented it, if she hadn't pushed Patrick. She had caused this. She had asked him to prescribe something. She only wanted to help. But now, she'd caused their pain, and Patrick's too.

She wanted to tell him, to confess all to him. But now was not the time. Her head always fell naturally onto his shoulder, she was that small. She couldn't bring it up yet, they had to be practical. So she sobbed, and he sobbed. She let go of his hand. An uncontrollable wailing overcame her. They reached their hands out to each other, grasping onto whatever part of the other they could reach, each trying to cup the others head in their hands. God she felt a fool, wailing like this. But it let Patrick sob. Panting through her tears, she whispered to him.

"We need to calm down before sister julienne gets here." She pulled out her handkerchief, and wiped her own eyes before giving it to him. She stood up and straightened her clothes.

"I'm going to make a pot of tea for when they arrive." Always the nurse, Patrick thought. Always calm in the storm. God he loved her. She didn't deserve this. If he had just stayed out of her life she wouldn't have to feel this pain right now. He had brought this on her.

"I'm sorry Shelagh." His voice was soft and broken. She squeezed his hand and went through to put the kettle on.

She stared listlessly put of the window. Her soul felt heavy and leaden. It was all she could do to stop her hand shaking as she put four cups on the tray. She wanted to scream. She wanted his hand to hold hers and stop it from quivering. She was a nurse. She had to be above this. Her hands could not tremble thus. I shouldn't have left him. She might have stopped being a nun, she might have been able to marry Patrick, but she could not be a wife to him now. She had to be a nurse, and he had to be a doctor. They had roles that had to be put before the natural devotion they felt. She couldn't hold him, they could not sit and cry together. They had to work. But as the kettle began to whistle, she remembered. She could tell him. She so often forgot still. But while her hands were still set fast in their medical duties, her lips were not bound by god.

She ran through to the waiting room.

"I love you, Patrick." She almost shouted. He came towards her, as he once had on a misty day, when they had seen each other clearly for the first time. He thrust his hand towards hers. They stared at each other for a moment, certain that if they dared kiss they would descend into tears. Or something else. Or both. Sister Julienne would love to walk in on that.

"The kettle," She gasped. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

"Get the nice biscuits. But perhaps don't offer them to Sister Julienne. We can have them ourselves first."

His hands were shaking, as hers had been. Sister Julienne and Nurse Crane were there, she could not comfort him as she wished to. But she knew what he needed. She reached out to him, Stroking his shoulder.

"Sit down Patrick." He did, but she could see him still crumbling. Nurse Crane did everything right, sending sister Julienne back to continue with the funeral arrangements, making plans to bring in Nurse Mount to help, telling Patrick he wasn't to blame.

"Oh I will be," he answered. "If one more woman, pregnant or otherwise takes one of those vile pills." She had to do something, move them on from this. She would take Nurse Crane's approach.

"Well, then there's no time to loose." She said, in the nurse voice. The calm voice of reason that they all knew how to put on. "Sister Julienne, you head back to Nonnatus, I'll show the filing system to nurse Crane, and we can get started on the filing system.

A.N.

Please review. Please. I am hungry for attention.


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